37.39 N  076.25 W

Dead & Bones Cove, Carter Creek, Rappahannock River, Virginia

It was three mornings ago that we took on water then disconnected the umbilical cord from the shore power of Pocomoke City Dock, said our goodbyes and drifted down the river on a sunny pleasant day. Unfortunately, we neglected to check with the weather people to see how long it would last. We didn’t and it didn’t. It wasn’t bad weather really as bad weather goes, just breezy out of the Northeast. Our heading was down wind, more or less, with the following seas so it felt safe and relatively comfortable although we both knew the seas would get bigger as we travel our rhumb line.

Lynn decided we should stay on the eastern shore and go hide up the Onancock River until it blew itself out. Again, we did, it did. Stayed a couple of days until the weather man said it was safe to travel in the 5-10 knot breeze predicted.

Never trust a government weather robot voice clone. I mean, what the heck, why should anyone put their fate into the hands of a talking computer program.

The winds as we passed Tangiers Island picked up to 20 knots and blew up these nice thick Chesapeake lumps of water coming down from the north. We were going west or at least wanted to. That meant, as most of you know, a beam sea which means rolling, which means our furniture gets re-arranged and if not careful, so does the crew. We turned further downwind which helped decrease the roll significantly and modified it to a corkscrewing motion. It was safe, we could operate, but the motion did Capt’n Lynnie in for the first time in 18 months of cruising. She went below to our quarters where the motion is much easier and laid down on the bed only occasionally needing to hold on to keep from being ejected.

While MoM, our autopilot did Yeoman duty keeping it on the rails, well maybe more like herding, we needed to make a higher course or chance loosing our angle into the Rappahannock River and having to head into the wind and pound heavily. Knowing that wasn’t an option Lynn would like, I took the wheel and played the swells, horsing it up in the smaller waves and coming off in the larger ones so we wouldn’t roll too badly. This scalloping technique and the wind shifting from N to more NE helped us nail the lay line into the mouth of the river which put the headland of Windmill Point on Fleets Island between us and the wind driven waves. It was quiet as we passed Cherry Point and scooted under the bridge and then entered the bay between Weems and Irvington, gliding by The Tides Resort and into our current anchorage nestled in the hills and trees of this wonderful little cove.

It had been an annoying and tiring little four hour run across the bay and we took the solace of an early wine and rum, played gin rummy, read and watched the news and otherwise enjoyed the simple essence of being. We do that a lot now. We have become competent handling the boat and the previous ever present fear of, well, just about every aspect of cruising, has faded to a familiar awareness of our surroundings and a growing contentment and comfort with traveling and experiencing the good, the better and even the Oh My Gosh, We Are Going to Die moments. There are days of languish and solitude and there are days of satisfying curiosities that pop-up. Then there are days of exploring an urban landscape and watching or meeting local people. All our days stream by with the quickness of light. Some days it takes hours to change a light bulb and others we seem capable of re-building the entire boat before morning coffee, which I must stop and get right now. Don’t go away-be right back.

Aw, bless the lass for layin out the Irish cream for me self. A wee bit of warmth on a cool September morn is good fer wot ails ya, don’t ya know.

Last couple of nights has been spectacular. The night skies were clear, the stars brilliant, the Milky Way seemingly leading us like a beacon into the future. On the eastern shore we lay out on the deck in the cool night air and watched as white strobe lights from aircraft filled the night sky. There were thirty of these little stars silently circling like fireflies around our field of vision. Where were they going, why, how many people were looking down into the inky blackness wondering who and what was out there. We were; and as children everywhere, we soon started counting stars, losing count as children do. We went on to counting all the constellations we knew, not very many at that, but no matter we simply made up several more. Do you know how many constellations of naked women there are in the heavens?

Last night on the aft deck while looking at the stars and the warm glow from family homes along the edge of our back yard, we started getting blips of something engaging our awareness through our peripheral vision. At first each of us thought to ourselves that some quirk of age was tormenting or teasing our vision. We would snap our head around to try and catch a look at something, anything that might be distracting us from the heavens. Finally out of a bit of annoyance I simply stared at the water. Soon, before my eyes came an assortment of greenish light. There, a bright one, a pinpoint of light. In a moment a six inch diameter sphere glowed softy and then extinguish. Here, there, dull glows through bright flashes begged our attention. The water seemed alive with light coming on and turning off. It was breathtaking, a moment to be cherished.

These small things seem to be the punctuation marks of cruising. Sometimes I have to remind myself, we are not rich enough to be having this much fun, not good enough to be reward thusly, not strong enough to be doing this. Simply not cool enough a person to have these experiences.

Upon having such thoughts for a few moments, there is a visual flash and I can see our friends, John, Jesse & Dave cock their heads to one side and each in their own way say: "Really?", as if to mean, why would you think that? The pleasures of cruising then seem acceptable. They seem right after that thought even though the wonders of the universe are there for everyone, I still, at times, feel guilty. I feel like a thief that has crept and crawled through the barn of the gods and stolen gold, myrrh and frankincense from the heavenly prophets.

It is then I realize it is true. I have these things in my possession. They are mine and they are there for all who wish to have them. The world is, indeed, our oyster and that oyster will be shucked, fried, baked, roasted, stewed, creamed, barbecued and eaten until we are sated with its pleasures. Not to worry, I can live with the guilt. If I were a rich man, if I, were a rich man I would be doing the very same thing I am doing now, watching the world go gently through my life.

That’s my view from the pilothouse this day.

Capt'n Lynnie and Skinwalker